


Just Fine

by flinchflower



Series: Slash Me Twice [41]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:03:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 41:  Sam and the flu at Pastor Jim's...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not for profit, simply a writing exercise. Herein lies Dean/Sam slash, in an AU timeline where John did not lose his life. John appears in parental context only. Follows in series from previous prompts, but stands alone if preferred.

Jim feels wry about the fact that if there’s a Winchester in his house, there’s usually something wrong. He knew he’d been pushing young Sam pretty hard, but he’d known that the boy had come off of a couple weeks of rest, not to mention their annual downtime before that. He’d watched Sam’s attitude sour throughout the day, thankful that John had gone off on an errand that would take a few days and wasn’t there to see it. Normally he was quite approving of the stern discipline that John handed out, but he felt that Sam’s behaviour was probably due to how hard Jim had been pushing, and didn’t want to see one of the famous standoffs between father and sun. Nor did he wish to put up with Sam fidgeting after a spanking, for that matter.

The boy had his eyes closed, struggling through the meditation Jim assigned him, giving the older man a chance to study him. The boy was flushed, the color in his cheeks hectic, even though he looked pale, and he still hadn’t settled into the meditative breathing rhythm that Jim had been pushing for all day. He hadn’t much touched his lunch, either. Jim heaved a sigh, and Sam’s eyes fluttered open, hazy with frustration. Jim stood up, turned Sam’s face up to him, and confirmed his fears. Sam’s eyes were a little glassy, and the flush was most certainly due to fever.

“That’s it, Sam. You should have said something, young man.” He let his tone grow stern, and he pulled the tall boy out of the chair, and gave him a little push, propelling him into the living room. “Sit there,” he ordered in no-nonsense tone, and pointed when Sam opened his mouth to protest. “Right there. I’ll be right back.”

The boy’s slouched down on the couch when he returns, and Jim doesn’t think he’s seen Sammy sulking that thoroughly since he was eight. He hands the boy a couple Tylenol and a glass of water, and doesn’t accept any protests, finally pushing Sam down and covering him with a worn afghan. “Get some rest. I’ll wake you up for supper – no, Sam, don’t say it. Dean should be back soon.” His face softens as Sam sighs, closing eyes that probably ache, and he brushes the boy’s long hair from his face. He’s half afraid to move, doesn’t really want to scold further. Finally, though, a car turns in the drive, and moments later Jim can hear Dean opening and closing cupboards, putting groceries away, glad that the younger man will be able to take over. Dean’s always been best with the boy when he’s ill. “Sammy, next time, say something when you’re not feeling so hot, all right?”

“Just a headache,” Sam mumbles, uncomfortable with the attention, and annoyed at the vague feeling of craving the close contact produces.

“I don’t think so.”

Jim’s trying to head off the famous Winchesters-don’t-get-sick argument when the door opens and Dean strolls in, relaxed after a morning out running errands for Jim. He stops dead in his tracks, taking in Jim sitting at Sam’s side, and frowns.

“Sir?”

Jim smiles. Always respectful, these boys, even if they do slip now and then. “Sammy’s coming down with something, Dean. He should rest.”

“Sam. Am not,” comes the protest from under the afghan, and before Sam can even sit partway up, Dean’s beside them, pinning Sam’s shoulder down, and snaking an expert hand onto the boy’s forehead.

“Dude. Bull. Just go to sleep, I’m not in the mood.”

Jim stands up, watching the exchange between the two, all of the unspoken arguments that result in Sam flopping over, every line of him radiating attitude as he obeys. Dean doesn’t make a move though, and simply seats himself in the chair next to the couch, green eyes contemplating both Jim and Sam.

Neither one of them is surprised to find an ally in the other as Sam’s condition worsens. Except Dean sort of wishes that Jim could handle the “channeling John Winchester to assure good behaviour” bit, because he’d rather be comforting his brother, rather than bullying him. After a day or two of it, Dean thinks to himself that someday, he’ll remember to make sure that they both get a flu shot. He’s pretty sure that the doc who splinted a sprained wrist a few months ago had scolded and given him one – not that he objected, knowing what excellent shape his ass was in and how attractive she was.

At least Jim had fielded the phone calls from John, and managed to convince John that it wasn’t necessary to head directly back. The phone had rung again today, and Dean had gone right in to run a tub full of hot water, ready to plead the excuse that Sam needed to clean up, and he needed to keep an eye on him. He manages to sweet-talk Sam into the bathroom, gets him undressed, restraining himself from smacking the crap out of the boy for all the whining that’s going on, hands him into the tub. At least the look of relief on Sam’s face makes it worth it, as the hot water soothes his aching body. Dean leaves him to the small pleasure, goes out to get the bedding changed, fish out a clean sweatsuit and socks for his brother.

He’s not expecting what he gets, when he goes back into the bathroom. Sam’s bright eyed, fever probably beginning to rise again, and he’s determinedly starting to get out. Dean puts a stop to that quickly, and ekes a little more good behaviour out of the boy by getting a wee bit more familiar than is quite necessary with the soapy washcloth, cleaning the fever sweat from Sam’s body. The only problem with that is the fact that his stern demeanor, necessary for wrangling sick younger brothers, seems to fade with the soap bubbles. He realizes too late that Sam’s got a hold on the back of his neck, and next thing he knows, he’s floundering in the tub with Sam, and the boy is laughing at him.

And Dean’s had it. Days of whining, hours of comforting nightmares, countless trips up and down the stairs with juice, water, pills, and chicken soup, and Sam dunks him in the tub. He points.

“Stay. There.”

Even sick as he is, Sam knows a command when he hears one. Dean shucks out of the wet clothes, slips into dry ones, and steels himself. Then he yanks Sam up out of the water, gets him standing firmly on the bathmat, and hauls off and smacks the dripping wet behind as hard as he can half a dozen times. Sam’s eyes are wide, and full of tears, and it’s really the last thing Dean needs, as he towels all 6’4” of the child standing in front of him dry, and helps the fumbling fingers into the clean sweatsuit, shoves the big feet into socks.

“Bed,” he says firmly, and Sam goes meekly, drinks down the beverage he’s handed and swallows the pills without a fuss. Dean’s pretty sure that Sam’s nearly out of the woods, but his fever’s going to spike in a couple of hours again, hopefully for the last time. There’s a knock at the door, and Sam quickly rolls over to face away from the door as Jim enters.

“John’s on his way, boys. I couldn’t convince him otherwise.” He wasn’t sure, but he thought Sam had whimpered. Dean simply looked amused, giving him what looked like a relieved grin.

“Get some sleep, Sam,” the older boy said, “And clean up your attitude while you’re at it, unless you want Dad on your back.” Dean gave Jim a wry, frustrated look, and made it clear that he needed some time to himself. A sigh followed Dean from the room, as Jim leaned against the doorway, watching the young man under the covers. Finally, he walked softly up, startling the hazy green eyes into popping open.

“Shh,” he soothed. “You’re fine, Sammy. Just get some sleep, let the meds do their job. Your Dad will be here soon – he’ll be happier to find you asleep.” Sam’s eyes snapped back shut at that, and Jim had to suppress a laugh. “You’re all right, Sammy. Come on, you relax now. You’ve had lunch, some tea, and you’re cleaned up, now it’s time to rest, boy.” It wasn’t long before even breaths told him that Sam was sleeping, and hearing the car turn into the drive, Jim padded softly downstairs to begin the task of assuring John Winchester that his son was going to be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Depeche Mode - Clean


End file.
